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Yassen meets him at the airport, waiting in the baggage-claim right outside of customs with his back against the wall and his sharp eyes trained on the doors. Alex starts when he sees him, a falter in his step covered so quickly that he’s sure no one notices- no one except Yassen, that is. A slight nod of his head, a summons, and Alex makes his way towards him. As soon as he reaches him, Yassen turns and begins to walk. Alex follows without hesitation. He’s too exhausted to even begin to consider why Yassen is here- he’s been up for 72 hours, in the field for a month straight, and so hungry that it’s wrapped around to nausea so strong he tastes bile at the mere thought of food. There are bruises and cuts and burns scattered all over his body, some cleaned, most not. It takes all his energy to follow Yassen, putting one foot in front of the other until they arrive at his armored black BMW. At a glance from Yassen, he gets in, all but collapsing into the backseat.
They don’t talk, and though Alex has no idea where they’re going, he doesn’t ask. Instead, he stares out the tinted window, blinking his heavy eyelids and forces himself to focus on the streets. They pass by in a whirl- mostly empty, it’s near three in the morning- but Alex can’t keep them straight in his head and eventually gives up. He blinks, and when his eyes open, the car has stopped in front of Yassen’s apartment building. The door slides open with a hiss and he stands up, swaying for a second before regaining his balance, but he feels Yassen’s eyes on him, watchful. He follows him into the building, his focus slipping through his fingers like sand as he tries to take in their surroundings. He’s vulnerable, extremely so, and anyone could surprise him in this state. He feels raw, like his soul is bared to world. It’s dangerous. He can’t protect himself. He needs to get away, get somewhere mildly safe to collect himself, before he misses something essential. His eyes scan the lobby furiously, trying to make sense of the blurred figures moving around them and failing, and then there’s a warm, solid hand on his back, guiding him forward. Yassen. Right. Yassen is there, and he’s as sharp as ever, aware enough for both of them. He lets the slight pressure guide him, ground him back in reality. He’s safe. Safe as he can be, in his line of work, under the protection of Yassen Gregorovich. It’s not that Yassen won’t hurt him- he will, if he thinks it’s necessary- but he knows without a doubt that he has his best interests in mind.
The firm hand on his back guides him towards the elevator- Yassen must be feeling quite indulgent, if they’re not taking the stairs- and doesn’t disappear even as the door slides shut and the car begins to rise. He’s too tired to be embarrassed about how he leans into the touch, and he can feel some of the tension of the last month bleed out. It takes all of his effort to keep standing up straight instead of sagging against the wall- or Yassen- but the elevator quickly arrives at the top floor and the doors slide open to the penthouse suite. They move through the lobby, an addition for extra security, and into the suite, and finally, Alex sags his shoulders down.
Yassen’s hand slides up to his shoulders, then his chin, as the man walks around to face him. Alex abruptly realizes that he hasn’t said anything yet, which isn’t too out of the ordinary- Yassen isn’t the most talkative man at the best of times- but there’s tension in his posture, something that might have been worry if he were someone else in his eyes. He raises Alex’s chin, forcing him to meet his eyes. “The briefing is at eight o’clock. You will stay here until then.” His words are soft, but they beg no disagreement, not that Alex wants to be anywhere else in particular. Alex nods. “Your medic instructed me to clean the remaining wounds and change your bandages. Then you will sleep.” Alex blinks. Nods again. Yassen holds his chin a little longer, searching for something, then lets go, turns around, and heads to the bathroom, Alex on his heels.
The bright white lights of the bathroom are harsh against Alex’s eyes, but Yassen needs the light, so Alex doesn’t complain. He stands there, feeling a bit like an idiot as Yassen pulls his extensive first aid kit from below the sink and sets it on the table. He looks over him again, cataloguing his stance, where he holds tension, which side he favors, where he’s been hurt more than he lets on. Alex stands up a little straighter, instinctively, as Yassen examines him, staying as still as possible. He’s still dressed, but Yassen’s stare always makes him feel uncomfortably exposed. Finally, Yassen nods. “Shirt.”
Alex braces himself and begins to pull his t-shirt over his head, grimacing where it’s stuck to his skin with blood. His shoulder is sprained, he’s pretty sure, but he tries to ignore the sharp ache when he raises his arm and hopes Yassen doesn’t notice. It’s a futile hope. Yassen knows him better than he knows himself. A hand lands on his arm, holding him in place with his shirt half over his head. It presses, lightly, and he lowers his arms, shirt settling back into place. He tries to least look a little regretful, but if Yassen’s arched eyebrow is anything to go by, he’s unconvinced. Instead, he turns around to the kit, rummages around, and brings out a gleaming pair of stainless-steel shears. “Hold still,” is all the warning he gets before his shirt is pulled taut and the cold metal of the scissors presses against his lower stomach. His breath hitches, vaguely aware that Yassen knows countless ways to kill someone with a pair of scissors, but the man’s other hand falls to his hip and he breathes out. If Yassen wanted him dead, he never would have seen the inside of the building. The steady hand on his hip pins him in place, and he hardly dares to breathe, hyperaware of the blades slicing inches from his torso.
His shirt falls away, and Yassen replaces the scissors to their proper place, examining his upper body. The hand on his hip glides upwards, testing the skin around a particularly nasty cut just below his pectoral, and he hisses, the inflamed skin tender under pressure. Mace had stitched it up best he could with floss, a sewing needle, and a splash of vodka, but it’s definitely infected. There had been a bandage on it, but it was maddeningly itchy and Alex had ripped it off mid-flight, deciding it wasn’t doing much more than trapping bacteria. He somewhat regrets that now when he looks down at the red, shiny skin and sees dried pus and blood seeping from it. Ew. Yassen just hums and moves on, fingers gentle but unyielding as he pokes and prods at the rest of the various bruises and lacerations decorating his chest and arms. He slices off the remaining bandages cleanly, but doesn’t replace them yet. Alex wonders, but keeps his mouth shut, focusing on Yassen’s slight nudges and twisting this way and that so he can get a better look.
Finally, he hums in satisfaction, then gestures to his pants. Alex is glad he’s able to take them off himself. He doesn’t want those scissors anywhere near his groin, no matter how steady Yassen’s hands are. The jeans are stiff with blood and sweat and dirt and soot, and it’s a relief to finally get them off after an eight-hour flight. He kicks them away, toes off his socks, slides off his boxers, then stands up, bare, before Yassen. His legs are slightly better off than his upper body, but they’re still covered in bruises and both his knees are rubbed raw from kneeling on a roof for twelve hours. Yassen crouches, taking in the state of his lower body, and repeats the series of unspoken commands from a second ago, hands sure on his legs as he leads him through the motions. Alex glances down at the man crouched below him, and though he can only see Yassen’s head of coarse blond-brown hair, he knows that he is aware of his gaze. His fingers trail up his inner thigh, ruffling the fine hair there, and he presses lightly on a bruise high up on his leg, from landing hard on the top of a fence. Alex’s breath hitches and he grabs Yassen’s shoulder, steadying himself against the dull ache as his fingers press harder. For a second his world is narrowed down to the hand on his thigh, the two fingers pressing into the bruise, and his tight grasp on the thin fabric of Yassen’s shirt, and then the hand is gone and Alex can breath again. He doesn’t remove his hand from Yassen’s shoulder, and Yassen does not tell him too. When he stands up, his expression is unreadable, even to Alex.
“The shower should clear the worst of it. We will disinfect the rest.” He inclines his head towards the shower, and Alex steps in, shivering slightly. He isn’t surprised when Yassen strips down and follows him, grabbing a bottle of rubbing alcohol and some gauze pads and setting them on the shelf away from the showerhead. It’s a large shower, bigger than Alex’s entire washroom at Malagosto, with room enough for at least three people comfortably, though he’s pretty sure he and Yassen are the only people who have ever used it. Yassen reaches around him and turns on the water, and it comes out steaming hot instantly. Alex steps into the stream and feels his muscles relax and a sigh slip past his lips as the hot water rushes over him. He hasn’t had a proper shower in at least three weeks, and he could stay here forever. Yassen gives him about twenty seconds- an eternity, for him- before he picks up the soap and raises an eyebrow. Alex turns his back to him, bracing for the sting of soap in his open wounds, and closes his eyes.
He doesn’t flinch when the washcloth brushes over the largest cut on his back, but it’s a near thing, and Yassen murmurs a soft “steady” from somewhere behind him before he begins to clean the wound in earnest. It’s not pleasant, and the chlorhexidine soap is not gentle, but he stays as still as possible; Yassen told him to. It’s a good thing, too, because without the sharp sting of the soap, he’s sure he could fall asleep where he stands, water chasing away the blood and fire and gunshots that still ring in his mind from earlier that day. But Yassen wouldn’t like that- Yassen would be worried- so he stays still, focusing on the quiet murmurs of instructions and the flares of hot pain. He loses track of time, staying still as he can for Yassen, moving when he’s told, and he retreats back into his mind. The briefing is in five hours- four, probably, at this point- and his report is still in its most preliminary stages. He had spent the whole plane ride on it, but exhaustion and pain had worn away at his focus and all he could do jot down a couple of essential bullet points for each section. Dr. Three and Yassen will expect the full written report at the briefing, so even if Yassen orders him to sleep, he’ll have to find some way to complete it in the next four hours. Even the thought of opening his laptop and staring at the blinking cursor in the document makes him stifle a groan. He has a headache- he’s probably concussed- and the last thing he wants is to be blasted by the bright light of a word document. Maybe he can hand-write it. He begins to go over his outline in his head, trying to put his thoughts in order, but he can’t focus on any single thought, sentences slipping through his mind like it’s a cheesecloth.
Then there’s a hand- familiar, strong, calloused- on his waist. He freezes, though he wasn’t moving much to begin with.
“Open your eyes,” comes the soft command, and he obeys immediately, staring at a crack in one of the tiles. He doesn’t even know how Yassen knew his eyes were closed.
“Turn around.” The hand on his waist turns him, forcing him to face Yassen, but he can’t bring himself to look down into his eyes, until- “Look at me.”
His eyes drift down to Yassen’s ice-blue gaze, which is as inscrutable as ever, and maybe it’s his imagination, but he thinks he can detect an undercurrent of softness in those eyes. Yassen’s hand remains on his waist.
“Commander Marcus submitted a preliminary report earlier this morning. The doctor and I will expect your complete report by the end of the day tomorrow. Lieutenant Mace indicated that you may be concussed, and I am inclined to agree. You will sleep here tonight, then after the briefing, you will visit Dr. Javadi and return here. Do you understand?”
Alex stares at him, trying to process his words in the slow mud of his brain. Blinks. Nods, a little uncertain.
“Alex.”
He swallows. “Yes, sir.”
“Repeat to me your instructions.”
“I’ll sleep here tonight, then after the briefing, I’ll go to Dr. Javadi, then I’ll come back here. After,” Alex stumbles out.
There’s definitely a flash of worry behind Yassen’s eyes. “Correct.” He pauses. “Arms up.”
Alex lifts his arms as high as he can go without pain, and Yassen gets to work cleaning out the wounds on his side, occasionally dipping the washcloth in rubbing alcohol and gently dabbing an open cut. He starts to drift again, aware of only Yassen and himself, but Yassen stops him before he can get too far away.
“Sit,” he says, and indicates a bench built into the walls of the shower, under a second showerhead. Alex sinks down onto it without thinking. Yassen turns on the second showerhead and the water shifts, running down over his head and soaking his hair, still dyed a dark brown from the operation. There are no cuts, but the back of his head is definitely tender from where he was slammed into the floor by a guard. Probably when he got the concussion, though it could have been from the butt of the rifle swung at his forehead a day after. Yassen is gentle, almost painfully so, as he rubs shampoo into his hair, careful not to press to hard on his skull. Alex can’t help it- he sighs and leans his head back, into Yassen’s hands, and he can feel the grease and grime and dirt washing away. It’s the best feeling ever, he thinks. Yassen lets him, cupping his neck briefly as Alex tilts his head up to look at him. There’s a million things he wants to say- thank you, why are you doing this, I love you, who are you?, is this a test?, but he eventually settles on “thank you,” low and rough, and lets his head fall back into Yassen’s hand. Yassen doesn’t respond, aside from a small smile- a real, true smile, with upturned lips and everything. Alex thinks he’ll remember it for the rest of his life.
He wishes he could stay there, safe in Yassen’s hold, forever, but eventually- too soon- Yassen gently tilts his head back up and turns off the water. The silence is deafening after the gentle white noise of the water, and Alex can feel reality begin to creep in under the door of the shower, and he slouches, too tired to force himself up. Yassen touches his shoulder, briefly- wait here- so he waits and watches as Yassen retrieves a clean towel, bandages, medical tape, and the shears from earlier. His eyes are threatening to close by the time Yassen comes back, even though it’s only been a minute, but they snap back open when Yassen grasps his chin.
“I need you to stay awake for another five minutes while I replace the bandages. After that, you will get dressed and sleep for three hours. It will not be much, but it will help.”
Alex nods, sluggish, but it’s good enough for Yassen, who just sighs and gets to work, drying him off and carefully replacing the bandages he took off earlier. Every brief brush of Yassen’s hands on him keep him awake, his orders clear, and Alex fights to obey, to not give in to the tide of exhaustion threatening to pull him under. The five minutes passes in a flash, Alex falling in and out of consciousness, but eventually Yassen places the supplies down and wraps an arm around his shoulders. He sighs. “Stand up,” he orders, and Alex blinks, standing as quick as possible and swaying into Yassen’s strong arms as soon as he’s upright. I’m tired, he thinks, then realizes he said it out loud.
“Yes,” Yassen agrees, and half-leads half-drags him to the bedroom. There’s a set of pajamas on the bed, neatly folded, and Yassen picks them up.
“Arms out,” he says, and pulls the button up shirt around him as soon as he complies. Yassen lowers him to the bed, arm slipping down to support his waist, and he at least gives Alex the dignity of struggling with his own pants. Once he’s set, he collapses onto the bed, over the covers, and finally lets out the rest of the tension he’s been carrying for the past month. The rest of- the guilt and horror at himself that has only grown since he joined SCORPIA six years ago- remains, but at least for now, he can curl up on Yassen’s bed and forget everything else for three hours.
The mattress dips beside him, and Yassen appears, fondness in his eyes as he brushes Alex’s hair out of his eyes. “Sleep, Alex,” he whispers, and that’s all Alex needs to hear before he lets the wave pull him under.